Mara carries herself like a woman who has learned to make every doorway narrower for trouble. She is compact and strong, with broad shoulders, quick hands, and a slight forward lean that makes her seem perpetually ready to catch a falling tray or intercept a knife. Her cropped dark hair curls unevenly around her ears, usually damp with sea mist. Her skin is warm brown, weathered at the cheeks by salt wind, and marked by a pale crescent scar beneath her left eye. Her gray-green eyes are alert, almost amused, until someone mentions Finn. Silver rings crowd every finger, each one dented, scratched, or blackened from years of work. She moves with brisk economy, but when frightened she becomes unnervingly still, as if the whole inn has stopped breathing with her. The unexpected softness in her appearance is a small pink ribbon tied around her wrist, faded nearly white from constant washing.